The Lamplighter Part 11

Gerty said nothing.

"Do you not wish G.o.d to forgive and love you?"

"G.o.d, who lives in heaven--who made the stars?" said Gerty.

"Yes."

"Will he love me, and let me some time go to heaven?"

"Yes, if you try to be good and love everybody."

"Miss Emily," said Gerty, after a moment's pause, "I can't do it, so I s'pose I can't go."

Just at this moment a tear fell upon Gerty's forehead. She looked thoughtfully up into Emily's face, then said--

"Dear Miss Emily, are you going there?"

"I am trying."

"I should like to go with you," said Gerty.

Still Emily did not speak. She left the child to the working of her own thoughts.

"Miss Emily," said Gerty, at last, in the lowest whisper, "I mean to _try_, but I don't think I _can_."

"G.o.d bless you, and help you, my child!" said Emily, laying her hand upon Gerty's head.

For fifteen minutes or more not a word was spoken by either. Gerty lay perfectly still in Emily's lap. By-and-by the latter perceived, by the child's breathing, that, worn out with the fever and excitement of all she had gone through, she had dropped into a quiet sleep. When Mrs.

Ellis returned, Emily pointed to the sleeping child, and asked her to place her on the bed. She did so, and turning to Emily, exclaimed, "My word, Miss Emily, that's the same rude, bawling little creature that came so near being the death of us!" Emily smiled at the idea of a child eight years old overthrowing a woman of Mrs. Ellis' inches, but said nothing.

Why did Emily weep long that night, as she recalled the scene of the morning? Why did she, on bended knees, wrestle so vehemently with a mighty sorrow? Why did she pray so earnestly for new strength and heavenly aid? Why did she so beseechingly ask of G.o.d His blessing on the little child? Because she had felt, in many a year of darkness and bereavement, in many an hour of fearful struggle, in many a pang of despair, how a temper like that of Gerty's might, in one moment of its fearful reign, cast a blight upon a lifetime, and write in fearful lines the mournful requiem of early joy. And so she prayed to heaven for strength to keep her firm resolve, and aid in fulfilling her undying purpose, to cure that child of her dark infirmity.

CHAPTER X.

AN EARTHLY MESSENGER OF PEACE.

The next Sabbath afternoon found Gerty seated on a stool in Emily's room. Her large eyes were fixed on Emily's face, which always seemed to fascinate the little girl; so attentively did she watch her features, the charm of which many an older person than Gerty had felt, but could not describe. It was not beauty; though once her face was illumined by beautiful hazel eyes: nor was it fascination of manner, for Emily's manner and voice were so soft and una.s.suming that they never took the fancy by storm. It was not compa.s.sion for her blindness, though that might well excite sympathy. But it was hard to realise that Emily was blind. It was a fact never forced upon her friend's recollection by any repining or selfish indulgence on the part of the sufferer; and, as there was nothing painful in the appearance of her closed lids, shaded and fringed as they were by her long eyelashes, it was not unusual for persons to converse upon things which could only be evident to the sense of sight, and even direct her attention to one object and another, quite forgetting, for the moment, her sad deprivation: and Emily never sighed, never seemed hurt at their want of consideration, or showed any lack of interest in objects thus shut from her gaze, but quite satisfied with the pictures which she formed in her imagination, would talk pleasantly upon whatever was uppermost in the minds of her companions. Some said that Emily had the sweetest mouth in the world, and they loved to watch its ever varying expression. But true Christians knew the source whence she derived that power by which her face and voice stole into the hearts of young and old, and won their love--_they_ would have said the same as Gerty did, when she sat gazing so earnestly at Emily on the very Sunday afternoon of which we speak, "Miss Emily, I know you've been with G.o.d."

Gerty was a strange child; but she had felt Emily's superiority to any being she had ever seen; and she reposed confidence in what she told her, allowed herself to be guided by one whom she felt loved her and sought her good; and, as she sat at her feet, and listened to her gentle voice while she gave her first lesson upon the distinction between right and wrong, Emily, though she could not see the little thoughtful face, knew, by her earnest attention, and by the little hand which had sought hers, and held it tight, that one great point was won.

Gerty had not been to school since the day of her battle with the girls.

True's persuasions had failed; she would not go. But Emily understood the child's nature better than True did, and urged upon her more forcible motives than the old man had thought of employing, that _she_ succeeded where _he_ had failed. Gerty considered that her old friend had been insulted, and that was the chief cause of her indignation with her schoolmates; but Emily placed the matter in a different light, and convincing her at last that, if she loved Uncle True, she would show it much better by obeying his wishes than by retaining her foolish anger, she finally obtained Gerty's promise that she would go to school the next morning.

The next morning True, much pleased, went with her, and inquiring for the teacher, stated the case to her in his blunt, honest way, and then left Gerty in her special charge. Miss Browne, who was a young woman of good sense and good feelings, saw the matter in the right light; and taking an opportunity to speak privately to the girls who had excited Gerty's temper by their rudeness, made them so ashamed of their conduct, that they ceased to molest the child.

The winter pa.s.sed away, and spring days came, when Gerty could sit at the open window, when birds sang in the morning among the trees, and the sun at evening threw bright rays across True's great room, and Gerty could see to read almost until bed-time. She had been to school steadily all winter, and had improved rapidly. She was healthy and well; her clothes were clean and neat, for her wardrobe was well stocked by Emily, and the care of it superintended by Mrs. Sullivan. She was bright and happy too, and tripped round the house so joyously, that True declared his birdie knew not what it was to touch her heel to the ground, but flew about on the tips of her toes.

The old man could not have loved her better had she been his own child; and he sat by her side on the wide settle, which, in warm weather, was moved outside the door, and listened patiently and attentively while she read various pleasing stories. The old man's interest in the story-books was as keen as if he had been a child himself.

Emily, who gave these books, knew their influence on the hearts of children, and most judiciously did she select them. Gerty's life was now as happy as it had been wretched and miserable. All the days in the week were joyous; but Sat.u.r.day and Sunday were marked days; for Sat.u.r.day brought Willie home to hear her recite her lessons, walk, laugh, and play with her. He had so many pleasant things to tell, was so full of life, so ready to enter into all her plans, and promote her amus.e.m.e.nt, that on Monday morning she began to count the days until Sat.u.r.day would come again.

Sunday afternoon Gerty always spent with Emily, listening to her sweet voice, and imbibing a portion of her sweet spirit. Emily preached no sermons, nor did she weary the child with precepts. It did not occur to Gerty that she went there to be _taught_ anything; but gradually the blind girl imparted light to the child's dark soul, and the lessons that are divine were implanted in her so naturally, that she realized not the work that was going on, but long after--when goodness had grown strong within her, and her first feeble resistance of evil, her first attempts to keep her childish resolves, had matured into deeply-rooted principles--she felt, as she looked back, that on those blessed Sabbaths, sitting at Emily's knee, she had received into her heart the first beams of that immortal light that never could be quenched.

It was a grievous trial to Gerty to learn that the Graham's were about to go into the country for the summer. Mr. Graham had a pleasant residence about six miles from Boston, to which he resorted as soon as the planting season commenced; for though devoted to business during the winter, he had of late years allowed himself much relaxation during the summer; and ledgers and day-books were to be supplanted by the delights of gardening. Emily promised Gerty that she should pa.s.s a day with her when the weather was fine; a visit which Gerty enjoyed three months in antic.i.p.ation, and more than three in retrospection.

It was some compensation for Emily's absence that, as the days got long, Willie was often able to leave the shop and come home for an hour or two in the evening; and Willie's visits always tended to comfort Gerty.

CHAPTER XI.

PROGRESS OF KNOWLEDGE.

It was one pleasant evening in April that Gerty, who had been to see Miss Graham and bid her good-bye, before her departure for the country, stood at the back part of the yard, weeping bitterly. She held in her hand a book and a new slate, Emily's parting gifts; but she had not removed the wrapper from the one, and the other was bedewed with tears.

She was so full of grief that she did not hear any one approach, until a hand was placed upon each of her shoulders; and, as she turned round, she found herself encircled by Willie's arms, and face to face with Willie's sunny countenance. "Why, Gerty!" said he, "this is no welcome, when I've come home on a week-night to stay with you all the evening.

Mother and grandfather are gone out, and when I come to look for you, you're crying so I can't see your face for tears. Come, come! _do_ leave off; you don't know how you look!"

"Willie!", sobbed she, "do you know Miss Emily's gone?"

"Gone where?"

"Way off, six miles, to stay all summer!"

But Willie only laughed. "Six miles!" said he; "that's a terrible way, certainly!"

"But I can't see her any more!" said Gerty.

"You can see her next winter," rejoined Willie.

"Oh, but that's so long!" said the child.

"What makes you think so much of her?"

"She thinks much of me; she can't see me, and she likes me better than anybody, but Uncle True."

"I don't believe it; I don't believe she likes you half as well as I do.

I _know_ she don't! How can she, when she's blind, and never saw you in her life, and I see you all the time, and love you better than I do anybody in the world, except my mother."

"Do you _really_, Willie?"

"Yes, I do. I always think, when I come home--Now I'm going to see Gerty; and everything that happens all the week, I think to myself--I shall tell Gerty that."

"I shouldn't think you'd like me so well."